


my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

by ghostnerd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, dorian is pining, idk why im posting it, it's a long story, just some tender conversations, my inquisitor is a lavellan but he also isn't, this makes no sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 06:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18733291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostnerd/pseuds/ghostnerd
Summary: In a time of celebration, Dorian stops and listens.





	my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

**Author's Note:**

> hi  
> so. this probably makes no sense at all because i have a whole ass backstory for my inquisitor and honestly i dont even know what this is. i just wanted to write dorian and also have my inquisitor talk about his Stuff? 
> 
> im not much of a writer lol i just love them a lot.... this is completely self indulgent and im posting this because uhhh i want to... but it's embarrassing 
> 
> the title is from hozier's "no plan"  
> i didnt know what to title this lol

The thrill of fighting a high dragon and actually _living_ to tell the tale is something that always requires loud and drunken celebration; although the fact that Dorian’s done this more than enough times for it to become some sort of _tradition_ is highly terrifying. (Only three times, to be precise. But who could say “only” when one is talking about killing multiple dragons?).

That thought makes him even more desperate for another drink - if you could even call that disgusting ale that Bull’s Chargers seemed incredibly fond of a _drink._ Dorian would do anything for a glass or four of a good Antivan vintage right about now.

“And then, he just opened one of those awful green arseholes right on its face! And _bam!_ ” Sera exclaims, and slaps her hand on the table with enough force to dangerously shake his pint. “Explosive arrows! The fucker was deader than dead.”

Another chorus of cheers explodes all around the tavern. Before coming South, Dorian never thought a party with so many people could feel _warm,_ and not desperately uncomfortable; it’s funny to even compare the heat of the Tevinter summer with the distinct coldness he has come to associate with life there.

Maybe he’s already drunk enough that he’s having these kinds of thoughts in the middle of the rowdy and dirty interior of Herald’s Rest, with the same people that only months ago would not even look directly at him, let alone share a table and a laugh.

But he’s not too drunk to fail to notice that the one person who played the biggest role on making that warmth a reality is not currently present. It seems fitting, that he’d vanish when the heroics being sung around are about his actions - he never really seems comfortable with too much praise.

Dorian grabs his pint and gets up with the mindset of looking for a mop of messy dark hair and hazel eyes, and is immediately approached by Krem, who sports a terrifyingly knowing smirk.

“I saw him going up the stairs some time ago.” Krem points up as he talks, and his smile grows to his more usual baring of teeth. “Had a frowny face too. Cheer him up, will ya?”

Dorian nods and goes his way, trying not to let it show how embarrassing it is that he’s so easily read like this. The _frowny face_ isn’t really that surprising; he’d argue that it’s just his regular face, but braces himself anyway just in case he needs to do some comforting.

The three flights of stairs he climbs somehow don’t give him enough time to think of something clever to say, and too soon he’s opening the small wooden door to the roof. The air is chilly but the wind doesn’t feel that biting tonight; it’s always cold in Skyhold, cold in a way he had never experienced back home. Dorian can’t help shivering a bit under his overcoat and blames it all on the weather, and none of it on the sight of that broad back welcoming him.

“Oh, if it isn’t the famous Inquisitor, the mightiest dragon slayer of all Thedas!” He begins, voice full of exaggerated amazement. “But he’s all alone on his night of celebration! My, aren’t the songs about his bravery poetic enough to his refined tastes? Tell me, my lord, how should us humble subjugates make up for this terrible slight?”

The Inquisitor waits for him to finish his dramatic monologue before turning to look at him. He’s perched on the edge of the roof, feet clad in worn boots swinging about. His hair is down, for once; the wild streaks framing his rough face in a way that seems to go against the softness of his knitted sweater and warm gaze.

Moth is someone that conveys peace in a way that Dorian doesn’t think is possible for himself to ever experience.

He rolls his eyes and smiles, and Dorian’s heart seems to be winning a fistfight against his ribcage at the sight of the tiny wrinkles that grow more pronounced at that.

He takes a sip from the bottle that Dorian just now realises he’s holding before speaking. “Yes, I think I need better musicians in this place. They didn’t even include the part when Andraste herself came down from the heavens to lend me her strength for the heroic final blow.”

Dorian snorts at his reply, and then immediately feels embarrassed for it before clearing his throat. His ringed fingers feel cold around the pint, but his ears feel maybe a bit too warm. “Mind if I take a sit as well? I understand if you truly want to be left alone.”

Moth’s eyes seem to soften at that, if that’s even possible. “Please.” He smiles again and pats the spot next him. “If anything, I need someone to share this terrible wine with.”

Dorian sits at the suggested spot, extremely aware of the short distance between them and feeling silly for it. “It must be better than the ale.”

“It’s Orlesian, so, you know.” He scrunches his face into a grimace. It’s lovely. “But I guess it could be worse.”

He offers the bottle to Dorian, who puts down his own drink to take a sip. He makes an offended face at the taste, mostly to get a reaction from Moth, and is immensely pleased with himself at the brief laugh that follows.

They sit like that, in a comfortable silence, passing the bottle to each other for a few minutes. Dorian is glad to see that Moth doesn’t look upset tonight, just thoughtful. Sometimes he looks like he holds the weight of the whole world on those scarred shoulders - and maybe he actually _does_ , in a way. Dorian feels like he’s powerless most of the time; he wants to lessen the burden, but can’t seem to find a way to make himself useful, so he just stays by his side and hopes that it’s enough.

Tonight, it feels like it is.

“What’s on your mind?” Dorian says, because sometimes Moth needs a little push to actually speak. “Thought you’d be more excited at the prospect of, you know, living through another dragon. Maker, it sounds unbelievable to say _another_.”

Moth looks at him, then slouches to a more relaxed pose, resting on his elbows. Dorian tries to not get too distracted at how inviting he looks.

“Well. Yes.” He starts, purses his lips and begins again. “It’s, well. All my life, I felt like I could die anytime.”

And that sobers Dorian up a bit, but he waits for Moth to continue.

“Growing up an apostate, being chased by templars and fighting them - I thought that maybe one day they’d kill me. Or maybe one day I’d starve, or something like that. But then I had a home and maybe a purpose, and everything was _good_. But now it’s all messy again, and I could die any of these days.” He says, and then looks at Dorian. “Sorry, I’m not making any sense, am I?”

Dorian pauses. “I am willing to listen and understand it better, if you explain some more.”

Moth is silent for a couple of minutes and Dorian thinks he’s not going to say anything more, but then he reaches for the bottle again and sighs. “You’ve said you don’t have a good relationship with your parents. But do you have anyone that is like family, and you feel like you need to support?”

The question is so sudden that Dorian actually flinches a little, before relaxing again. He hasn’t thought about family in a while, and it catches him so off guard that he can’t help but blurt out what first comes to mind.

“There was Felix, I suppose, but he’s gone now.” And he washes down that metaphorical bitterness with the actual bitterness of the wine.

Moth winces. “I’m sorry.” He says, sheepishly. “For bringing it up like that”

“It’s alright.” And it is, really. Moth sounds harsh sometimes, but Dorian knows he doesn’t mean it. “Do you? Have someone like that, I mean?”

“Yes.” He answers simply, and Dorian is startled. Moth never spoke so openly about something like this. He knows some stories about Clan Lavellan, but that’s all. And he’s terribly curious.

“Really?”

“I left my baby behind. I could die any of these days and never see her grow up.”

Dorian looks at him.

And then immediately chokes on the wine.

As he coughs, a million thoughts go through his mind at once: Moth has a child. Does he have a wife? It shouldn’t be that surprising, he’s certainly at that age that people normally have children. He’s talked about women before but never a _wife._ Or a _child._

“You- you have a _kid_?!” Dorian exclaims, and his face must look ridiculous because Moth bursts out laughing.

Dorian is still coughing and Moth still is laughing, even as he slaps Dorian’s back, presumably to help with the choking but with enough force that he has to catch himself to not fall off the damn roof.

“She’s not my daughter! Nor a kid, really.” He laughs a bit more before sighing. “Selene, that’s her name. She turns 20 next week.”

“Oh.” Dorian says, when he finally stops choking. And then waits, because Moth looks like he wants to say more.

“She’s _kinda_ like a daughter, I guess. She was only 15 when she showed up, talking about how Mythal showed her the path to _me._ Maker, she was a mess.” He laughs, his eyes far away. “A tiny little mage, showing up uninvited to my shop and demanding to be my apprentice. I let her in after some insisting because I wasn’t about to let some kid out there in the cold, no matter how annoying that kid is. And she ended up staying, and I took care of her. And the rest is history.”

Dorian smiles. There’s definitely more to that story, but the fact that Moth chose to open up to him about this makes him feel… Special, perhaps. He thinks maybe he’s the only one in the Inquisition that knows this (Leliana also probably knows, but it isn’t fair since she knows _everything_ ).

“I see. She seems great.”

“She is.” Moth tries to take a sip from the bottle, finds it to be empty and reaches for Dorian’s forgotten ale instead. “I love her. And I miss her.” His voice cracks on the last word and he gulps down the rest of the ale, then clears his throat. “And, I don’t know. The fact that her birthday is coming up made me realise that I haven’t seen her in what feels like ages, and I could die any of these days without doing that.”

He looks down and Dorian realises he’s looking at the anchor, glowing an almost imperceptible green under the moonlight. He curls his fingers over it, and then his hand just looks normal, and not like it holds that curse; or _salvation_ , he muses.

“And I know it’s selfish, because I feel like I have to live for those thousands of people who believe in me, but I only want to live for _her_.”

Moth’s eyes are on him, so soft and vulnerable, and Dorian wants to say _I understand. I understand, because I want to live for you._ But he doesn’t, because that’s not what Moth needs right now.

Or ever.

But he can’t stop himself from reaching out and touching Moth’s clenched fist, uncurling his fingers and sliding his palm against his. The ever present soft pull of the Fade that is normal around Moth seems amplified, but Dorian doesn’t care about the anchor right now.

He cares about the rough feel of his palm, and the calluses contrasting against his own softer hand. He cares about those long fingers curling against his ringed ones almost like an afterthought. He cares about Moth’s eyes on his. He cares so, _so much_.

“It’s not selfish. But you also should be living for yourself, Mothdis.”

The name feels foreign, somehow, and he doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe is the weight of the sentence that requires the use of one’s given name, even if it’s so unusual that Dorian almost fears that Moth will feel offended.

Dorian feels more than hears the breath leaving Moth’s lips. And maybe it’s the wine, but the smile that blooms on his face seems the sweetest Dorian’s ever seen, and it’s not a reply to what he said, it’s just a _smile._ But maybe it is so much more than that.

“Do you want to tell me more about her?” He asks, for a lack of anything else to say, and because Moth’s eyes seem full of stories wanting to be told.

“Yes.” He replies, takes a breath. Doesn’t let go of his hand.

He starts talking and _talking_ and hours later, Dorian doesn’t remember ever feeling cold.

**Author's Note:**

> his "baby" is my friend's oc too  
> i cant even remember if there's a way to go to herald's rest rooftop or whatever. I Made This Shit Up.,,,.. im sorry,,,
> 
> im capricorndemon on tumblr if u wanna talk about dragon age ocs.... hmu!!!!!
> 
> also english is not my first language !! if there's any mistakes let me know


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